


Jethuba

by threesmallcrows



Category: Free!
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Splash Free, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Fail-bandits, Gen, M/M, Running around the desert like madmen, mermaid au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:59:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threesmallcrows/pseuds/threesmallcrows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haru hasn’t found the sea yet. Makoto’s still trying to get this bandit thing down. Rin doesn’t want to be king. Rei’s sick of people calling his work “magic.” And Nagisa just wants to go home.</p><p>In which problems abound, and all 99 of Gou’s involve finding water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In his spare time, Haru wonders about their cargo.

There’s a lot of it—spare time and cargo alike. He glances over his shoulder. Right now it’s right behind him, massive and square and all covered up in canvas, lashed to the cart beneath it by yards and yards of rope like a small moveable building. Sometimes Haru swears he can hear it _sloshing,_ but he can’t imagine why anyone would hire a bunch of mercenaries to haul a big tank of water across the desert, even if people in this nation do say that water is valuable as gold.

Well, whatever. He’s not getting paid to know what it is, just to guard it. Whatever it is, he wishes they could move it a little faster. At this rate, he’ll turn twenty before they see the capitol’s gates again.

Haru knows he’s still young, but he can’t help feeling that he’s running out of time. This is the twelfth job he’s taken, and he hasn’t come a step closer to seeing _it._

Ocean.

This time, he’d been so sure. All the whispers about an expedition to Ocean, all his rushing to join the group, and for what? A month and a half of mind-numbing travel—in the wrong direction. He hasn’t even seen Jethuba, the supposedly impenetrable wasteland barring mankind from the legendary land of endless water. By the time he and the other mercenaries had met up with the company, they were well into the known lands, crawling homewards to the capitol. And he probably won’t even get to see that; they’ll likely get paid off at the gate, because capitol folk don’t like to mingle with _blood-dealers_ like themselves.

His grandmother had always called mercs that. She’d be so disappointed.

Haru’s thoughts are arrested by a shout from the caravan leader. Already, the sun is falling earthwards in a shower of flame. He sets off to help make camp.

()

Only one fire is allowed, and that hidden like some great secret behind an elaborate blind of thick cloth. The mercs grumble amongst themselves and make their beds in the sand, cooling rapidly under the moon.

For his part, Haru can’t sleep. Maybe it’s the memory of his grandmother. So small, smaller still in the grave. He’d cried that night, despite himself. Three days later, he packed his things, said goodbye to the bewildered schoolmaster, and set off onto the high road towards Mushara. He never arrived. Someone had picked a fight with him at an inn along the way, over what he doesn’t remember. He’d roundly defeated him and gained himself a broken nose and a job.

That was nearly three years ago. The nose healed, the jobs kept coming. Now he circles the binding pole, checking the feedpost of the riders’ camels. They’re ugly things from afar and stink to high heaven up close, but Haru has never encountered another species as hardy. These have gone weeks without water, and still have days before their next drink. He pets his on the nose. He’s taken to calling her Tooth for her massive overbite, nasty even by camel standards. She chomps at air, tossing, and almost gets his finger. Haru withdraws his hand rapidly—he likes all his limbs attached, thanks. “What’s wrong?” he mutters. Tooth stomps the sand, hooves clapping the ground like dinner plates. He grabs her reins, but she flicks her head away, growing low and guttural.

“Hey, Tooth-chan—”

Her scream sounds nearly human. Haru falls back in alarm, hand leaving the reins. It’s not just Tooth—all of them are stomping, now, panicking.

Trying to calm them down, Haru peers into the darkness. Nothing—no lights, just the ever-present rasp of sand on sand. Utter quiet, for a desert.

A blast of wind. Something bowls past him; he falls to the ground, hyper-aware of trampling limbs, too thick and fast to be a camel’s, crossing near over his face. _Sand-wolves,_ he thinks for a moment, but no—too tall, and that’s a whinnying cry, not the howl of a dog, and a rider silhouetted against the sky bright with moon. Eyes like steel, wisps of red hair escaping from a long scarlet scarf wrapped around his face.

Not sand-wolves—worse. Bandits.

He shouts without thinking, slides his shortsword from his belt. He can’t count them, weaving in and around the edge of the caravan like a long black viper, near totally silent. _They can’t just make off with the cart_ , he thinks; it’s too heavy. Which leaves only one option—total slaughter.

There’s a rider dismounting next to him, running for the tent. Haru chases after him, fleet-footed in the sand, dagger raised.

He’s a foot short of sinking it into the man’s back when the man turns suddenly and literally grabs Haru’s fist. His wrist turns sharply as his body continues to pitch forwards, sending a sharp bolt of pain reverberating up his whole arm. The man, just a pair of green eyes peeking out from beneath ornately patterned cloth, tightens his grip, and Haru swears he feels bones turning in his hands.

He lets go of his weapon, and simultaneously manages to kick the guy’s scabbard loose of his belt, sending it flying somewhere into the dark. At least they’re both disarmed this way. The man pitches forward, temporarily off-balance, and Haru manages to land a blow to the back of his neck that simultaneously makes Haru’s hand ring with pain and completely fails to knock out his opponent.

 _Christ, Nanase, great job,_ he thinks, springing back and raising his fists. _Do pick the guy built like a wall._ He doesn’t know the first thing about fist-fights, but he guesses now is as good a time to learn as any.

The other guy isn’t attacking, just circling Haru warily. Waiting it out, Haru guesses—counting on his fellows to finish up their job and then come for Haru.

He darts in, hoping for a hard straight blow to the solar plexus, and misses. Despite his size, the guy is _fast._ Haru manages to dodge three bone-shattering punches, and even deliver one or two of his own, before the fourth catches him straight in the face.

Staggering, Haru blinks. Blood spews from his nose and his head is full of constellations. He tries to sort out what his next move should be, but he can’t feel which of his limbs is where.

He seems to hear someone calling “wait!” but it already sounds muffled and thick, and when the next blow sinks into his jaw his hearing goes altogether.

()

He wakes up to a small hand pinching his shoulder. Someone’s gabbling away in a high-pitched voice, at once sharp and muffled.

“You see… shape of… deltoids! Deltoids!”

The hand moves to his arm. “And… triceps… wonderful, aren’t they?”

“Sure…”

 _A child?_ It can’t be.

He groans. Raising his eyelids feels like pitching a heavy tent. The hand pulls abruptly away. Wincing, Haru forces his eyes open.

His vision is all weird, too bright on the left and oddly dark on the right and blurry altogether. He tries to sit up, but pain cracks bright like thunder through his head and he falls back down, gasping.

A hand—a different one, broad and bubbled with calluses—pushes down gently on his forehead. “You might not want to try getting up for a while.” A man’s voice, lilting with accent—a Hoetian, maybe? “Your head’s kind of messed up right now.” Haru shifts, blinking rapidly, trying to level out the halves of his vision. He notices his hands are tied behind his back. _Ah, the bandits._ His vision is clearing. And this man was—

The guy whose fist is the last thing Haru remembers squats in front of him, hand on his forehead.

“Are you okay?”

That’s some kind of question to for _you_ to be asking, is what Haru means to say. What comes out is a sort of wheeze. He can’t see himself, but his accusatory glare probably emerges pretty limp as well.

“You didn’t knock a few screws loose, did you?” comes a voice—a girl’s voice—behind Haru. He squeezes his eyes shut and open again, as if they have any bearing on his hearing. _That can’t be right._

“I didn’t mean to!” The man turns back to Haru and waves his hand in front of his face, looking genuinely alarmed. “Do you understand me?”

“I sp-speak Common, you idiot,” Haru manages to cough, and flinches, expecting a belt across the face or worse. But all the guy does is sort of pat him on the side of the head, looking relieved. “He’s all right, Gou.”

“That’s _Captain_ Gou to you.” Nope, thinks Haru, still off—the voice still sounds female, and Gou’s definitely a guy’s name.

“Sure, whatever you say. Gou.”

“You—”

It takes him a few seconds to place the face that sweeps into his field of vision, if only because the last time he saw it was from behind a long scarlet scarf. But those steely eyes are the same.

“You’re a _girl,_ ” he wheezes.

The girl—and she’s not even a woman, she’s _young,_ can’t be older than Haru—sighs. “Why is that the first thing everyone says?”

“I mean, you do kind of keep it a secret.”

“Rhetorical, Makoto. Rhetorical.”

“Sorry.”

“Where… ‘s everyone?” slurs Haru. “What’d you do?”

“He doesn’t sound so good,” says the man—Makoto. “I’ll go get some water.”

“Relax,” the girl says to Haru. “Your transport buddies are tied up where we left ‘em, with plenty of water and headaches to spare till another caravan or the guard gets there.”

“You think the guard will come?” asks Makoto.

“I hope not, but Sane and Kuzu had a pretty late start. I don’t know if they’ll be able to catch them.”

So it looks like a few of theirs were able to escape. Haru can only hope they get away successfully. Makoto returns, angling the lip of a gourd towards Haru’s mouth. “Open,” he commands, so gently that Haru sort of just obeys. “Swallow. There you go.”

“You feel bad, don’t you,” accuses Gou.

“I can’t help it!”

“He’s not a very good bandit,” comments Haru.

“Don’t say that to someone who’s feeding you water. That’s rude,” replies the girl.

“I’m saying that because he’s feeding me water.”

Makoto laughs. He also doesn’t stop offering Haru water. “You picked a mouthy one, Gou.”

“I don’t care if he’s mouthy,” she retorts.

“Oh, _right,_ you only care about the—” Makoto makes a vague gesture encompassing his entire upper body and _winks_ at Haru. Haru suddenly feels rather threatened. She doesn’t _look_ like a cannibal…

Although she is considering him quite appraisingly. Haru becomes suddenly and violently aware that he’s shirtless.

Together, they look down at his chest.

Gou sighs. “The male physique,” she says contemplatively, “is one of the wonders of the world.”

“Up there with the pyramids?” asks Makoto.

“Who cares about the pyramids? Do the pyramids have biceps?”

“I think you’re missing the point.”

“Well, I think _you’re_ missing the point.”

“The pyramids have a point,” says Haru softly.

“What?”

In lieu of answering, he lies back down. He’s feeling dizzy again. Great. Not only has he been captured by a bandit outfit, but it’s a bandit outfit led by a possibly hormonal girl who’s ogling his clavicle and a man who nurses his knock-out victims with his iron fists. And he might be concussed.

 _It could be worse,_ he tells himself. _They could’ve slit your throat and left your body in the sand like your_ average _band of criminals. Instead—_

Instead, a small hand pats his left pectoral reverentially.

Haru can’t help rolling his eyes.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Every time he tries to get up the ground bucks and Makoto clicks his tongue and makes motions like he’s going to push him back down, so Haru just lies there, hands going slowly bloodless from the angle they’re tied at. People keep hurrying past him, moving sideways from his vantage point, carrying barrels of water. There’s a great deal of splashing noises coming from somewhere outside.

“…don’t get it,” he mutters.

“Don’t get what?”

“The water. Why… bother stealing it?”

Makoto gives him an odd look. “It’s what’s in the water. Although, honestly, I don’t believe any of that stuff.”

“What…stuff?”

“…you don’t know what it is, do you. It’s a siren.”

“…What?”

“That’s what’s in the tank.”

Haru just stares. “A fishperson.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Really, though, what is it?”

“I’m not joking.”

Haru scoffs. “I might be concussed, but I’m not _that_ injured.”

Makoto considers him for a minute.

“Do you feel well enough to get up?”

He manages to get to his feet with Makoto’s help. Keeping a firm grip on his arm, Makoto leads Haru inside the big canvas tent covering the chassis. “Careful. It’s a little dark—”

Sunspots dance in front of his eyes like dust motes. The air inside smells like water. He blinks rapidly in the cool shade. Blinks again when he sees it.

Its torso melds seamlessly into a long, slender tail, fanning out at the ends into a massive fan spoke of thin tissue, fine as silk and nearly translucent. The scales are small, packed neat and close as chain mail, nearing the pale rose tint of the boy’s skin as they reach his waist and descending to a deep silver-blue at the base of the flukes. They’re so reflective that they seem to glow, drinking in every speck of sunlight available. Nothing Haru’s ever seen resembles them. Yet the siren’s upper body is eerily human-looking, the knobbly elbows and vein-laced wrists and mop of longish hair, an ordinary-enough shade of blonde, as familiar to Haru as his own.

It catches sight of them and swims towards them. When it presses its hand against the glass, Haru notices the thin webs extending between its fingers. He can see it breathing, the faint flutter of gills marring its neck like four razor-precise cuts. Its eyes, although an alien shade of coral-red, are not at all cold.

It moves its lips, but no sound emerges. Rather, the glass of the tank ripples alarmingly. A series of characters lights up for a second before fading rapidly back into invisibility.

“Silence spell,” explains Makoto. “To keep him from harming us.”

The siren rolls its eyes, and Haru swears it looks exasperated. It taps the glass with both hands, saying something, watching light streak across its surface. Haru’s heard the stories, like all children, of the intoxicating voices of Ocean’s inhabitants, of sailors hurling themselves into outstretched arms, only to find themselves in death’s embrace instead. Once you’re aware it’s speaking to you, they say, it’s too late.

Although he hardly feels in any danger here—what’s he going to drown himself in, the tank?

“Looks just like us, doesn’t he?” says Makoto. “I kind of thought they’d be more, I dunno, mythica—” He cuts off as a spray of water lands on his head. “Hey!”

The siren smiles mischievously, hands still upraised.

“I get the feeling this one’s a kid,” says Haru. The siren makes a face at him, says something that Haru has no doubt is rude.

“Makoto? Are you in there?” Gou climbs in through the flap. “There you are, I’ve been looking for you. And you, too. I’ve some business to discuss with you.”

()

Rei has half a heart attack when they kick in his door.

_Soldiers,_ he thinks, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. _Never a knock when a boot could do._

He gets up, closing his notes in what he hopes is the most irritated manner possible. “What is it?”

“You’re a mage, aren’t you?”

Rei sighs. “As my sign says, I’m a doctor. I work in science—”

“King needs you.”

“Me?” He can’t imagine why. “For what?”

The soldier leers; his room’s going to stink after this, he can tell. “He seems to have lost a little fishy.”

()

“The way I see it, there’s two options. One, we keep you tied up and dump you somewhere in the middle of the desert where you won’t make any trouble. I don’t know how you feel about that one, your survival chances don’t look so great. Or, two.”

“…yes?”

“You join Iwatobi!” Gou leans back, arms spread, as if expecting a drumroll and a round of applause. The miniature red-tailed hawk sitting on her shoulder screeches and beats its wings excitedly. “Oh, not you, Iwatobi-chan—Iwatobi the group!”

“That’s what you guys are called. Iwatobi,” says Haru flatly.

“Wh-what? Got a problem with it?”

“…not really.”

He considers it. To be honest, he doesn’t particularly care one way or another who’s paying him. Mercenaries usually can’t afford to be picky. There’s also the matter of the pay itself—a substantial fee. A job that’s a bit of an adventure for a change, good pay, measured against being ditched in a desert on his own—it’s not much of a comparison.

Also, he doesn’t really get the feeling this girl and her cohorts are bad people, despite the disconcerting ogling earlier. It’s this, above all, that pushes him to tell her yes.

()

 “Your Highness.”

_Goddamnit_.

Rin turns around.

“Nitori.”

“Good afternoon. If I might ask—”

“Would telling you ‘no’ make you stop?”

Nitori smiles ruefully, which is his way of saying _not a shot in hell._ “Is the Prince planning on going for a ride?”

As if he can even lie about it, dressed like this. “Yeah, I, uh, figured I’d go take a look at the wall repairs.”

“I see. I wasn’t aware the walls were so far away.” He gestures at Rin’s pack. “That you need to take so many supplies with you.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“I’d never presume, Your Highness.” Nitori’s face is perfectly serious as he folds his arms.

Rin briefly considers making a run for it. He’d definitely be able to outrun him, the puny little guy—but that, that’s not really the issue, is it? Goddamn Nitori would probably have the stable shut down before he’d even set foot out the palace door. Goddamn Nitori would stand there with his stupid fucking serious face as Rin was turned away from his own goddamn beasts and he’d fucking stand there while the King chewed him out—

Well, if he’s being honest with himself, Nitori probably wouldn’t tell the King, and he definitely wouldn’t stand there, shifting from foot to foot, a smile threatening his small serious mouth, if Rin was getting chewed out by his father. Despite the many, _many_ times Rin hasn’t felt like it, he’s always known that Nitori’s on his side.

Rin sighs. “Nothing gets past you.”

“Only you don’t, your Highness.”

“I have a name, you know.”

“I’m aware of that.”

Rin makes a vague frustrated gesture and Nitori almost smiles. Like always.

He glances up and down the hallway. Not a soul in sight. “You heard about the siren, right?”

“Yes. I believe the guard is set to send a company in pursuit this very evening.” When Rin doesn’t say anything, Nitori prods, “Did your Highness—”

“Do you believe it?”

“Believe what?”

“That eating the thing’s tail makes you immortal.”

“Do you?”

Rin sighs. “No. That’s—no, I don’t. That’s impossible. But I don’t _know._ And if there’s a chance—even the slightest chance. Do you see?”

Nitori blinks at him. “I’m afraid you’re—”

 “I’m going to ride there,” he hisses, “and I’m going to cut the damn thing’s throat before the guard gets its hands on it.”

Nitori is silent for a moment. Then he says slowly, “I must remind my Prince he’s planning to steal his Royal Majesty’s immortality. Imagined or otherwise, you are aware that many would consider this kind of conversation treasonous.”

“I’m the goddamn Prince. What’s he going to do, throw me in prison?”

The boy just gazes at him. It takes a few seconds for Rin to realize what kind of position he’s put Nitori in by confiding in him like this. Suddenly, he feels like a fool.

Still, he can’t bring himself to apologize. Out of practice, maybe—it’s not something a prince does a lot. “Just—let me go,” he demands.

“I can’t do that, your Highness.”

“So, what, are you going to tell him?”

“Do you know the route to Damesthebeba?”

Rin stares. _What?_ “Obviously I—”

“Of course, you wouldn’t have been thinking of the route the guard will be taking tonight, so you have an alternate prepared?”

“Well—I was—”

”And which gate, exactly, were you planning to leave by? Surely not the main gate, where his Highness’ presence would surely be noted?”

“What’s your goddamn point, Nitori?” 

“Eighteen years ago—”

“Oh, God, not _this—_ ”

“—I was sworn to protect—”

“—fucking shit again—”

“—and serve your Highness—”

“—and for the last time, would you stop fucking calling me that, my name is _Rin—_ ”

“—with my life. Do you understand what that means?”

“No, I fucking do not.”

Nitori says solemnly, “It means there’s a servant’s gate in the Northeast quarters where no one’ll be going through right now, that I know four routes to Damesthebeba, and that if your Highness pleases, you’ll be giving me fifteen minutes to gather my supplies for the ride.”

Rin can’t help the shit-eating grin that spreads across his face. They haven’t had half enough goddamn adventures this past year. “If I please, my ass.”

“Your Highness, if you don’t wish me to accompany you—”

“Go get your fucking shit. I’ll be waiting right here.”

“As you command.”

Rin snorts. “More like as _you_ command!” he calls after Nitori as he hurries down the hallway.

()

The soldiers keep demanding that he hurry up. As if it’s so easy for him, Rei thinks. He can’t just grab a stupid spear and skip out the door.

The problem is, even _he_ doesn’t really know what he should be bringing. If this was a medical call for a human, it’d be easy enough. But a siren? Those aren’t even supposed to exist. What the hell does he know about how to fix a siren?

Well, probably more than anyone in the guard. Standing close and tall in his quarters, the head of the company yawns loudly. Nervously, Rei snatches up his worn leather case of surgical tools—anyhow, he tells himself, a scalpel will work as well on skin as scales, won’t it?

“Don’t look so worried, mage,” says the captain. “Ain’t all your hands magic anyway?”

“If only it were that simple,” snaps Rei, then softens. Even the lords don’t understand the difference between magecraft and science; he can’t expect commoners or barrack men to know either. Most people think he can chant some mumbo jumbo and make trees grow out of the sky. They don’t know about conservation of mass or alchemical exchange or the circulatory system. As far as they’re concerned, those kinds of things _are_ magic. “Another minute, please, and I’ll be ready.”

In the end he just takes what he’d take to any emergency, unknown medical situation. The surgical tools, disinfectant, bandages, his little logbook of notes, scales and common medicines—the kind he knows works, not the stuff grey-market quacks peddle in the streets of Mushara. God knows it won’t be any help, but it’s better than the anxiety of bringing nothing, like walking into a swordfight bare-fisted. Throwing everything into his worn pack, he straps the thing onto his shoulders and gives it an experimental shake.

The captain laughs. “He’ll jangle like bells at Solstice, boys, but it’ll have to do. Come on, doc, let’s get you mounted up.”

Rei recoils, and the captain raises a brow. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s just—I have to ride?”

“How else did you think we were going to get there?”

()

The dromad they give him doesn’t take very well to him. It keeps straining its long neck around to glare at him accusatorily. Haru has to give it a dozen kicks before it moves, and then it does, only to take off sprinting at break-neck speed into the desert, bellowing in what can only be described as ornery-assed joy as Haru curses and clings to its heaving neck.

It ends up being Makoto who spends ten minutes chasing the thing down. Infuriatingly, the moment Makoto tells it to stop, it does, despite the fact that Haru’s been shouting the exact same command at it this entire time.

“Don’t worry,” calls the Captain, smirking as she watches Makoto calm the animal down, “they don’t like anyone. Just Makoto.”

Makoto apologizes about the whole situation about three times, but that doesn’t change the fact that Haru subsequently spends his first day in company Iwatobi with his dromad leashed to Makoto’s, being led through the desert like a child taking his first riding lesson. He’d feel more embarrassed if he wasn’t too busy tensing in anticipation every time his dromad glared at him.

He gets the feeling that the Captain’s second hand is more than amused. “You’ve never ridden one?” he asks after the dromad snorts aggressively and Haru nearly falls off its back in alarm.

“No. It’s a Hoet thing, isn’t it?”

“So you could tell.”

“Your accent.”

He smiles. “Gou-chan told me to lose it, but it’s not that easy, is it?”

“You’re a long way from home, then.”

“I miss it.”

“Why not go back, then?” No matter how he dices it, this Makoto guy just doesn’t seem like someone who makes a living robbing people. He’s way too… nice, or something. Gives off the wrong aura.

Makoto smiles vaguely. “They’re why I’m here.”

“Ankle.”

“What?”

He gestures at his dromad’s feet, the front left of which is covered in pure white hair. “It should be called ‘Ankle.’”

“…You should explain those kinds of things before you say them. I thought you were saying _your_ name was Ankle.”

“…no.” After a moment, he adds, “It’s Nanase Haruka.”

Makoto smiles at him. “Hi, Haruka. I’m Tachibana Makoto.”

They ride in silence for a few minutes.

“I’m calling it Ankle,” says Haru definitively.

“Okay, Haru,” replies Makoto.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's chapter two. Reviews, criticism, etc. would be appreciated! Thanks for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

Several days later, Haru feels he’s reached an… understanding with Ankle, if not quite a full relationship. At least Makoto’s let him off the kiddy leash, even if he does still tend to stick close to Haru.

Iwatobi moves at a much faster clip than any of the unwieldy caravans Haru’s been hired by before. Their captain actually prefers travelling at night over journeying under the sun—though much faster, the dromads aren’t quite as immune to the heat as camels are, especially the four that they’ve hitched to the chassis.

Haru’s amazed by how well the bandits treat their mounts. The relationship between man and animal is less master-servant, more partnership. The men (and sole woman) sleep with their animals, feed them straight from their hands, talk to them like they’re humans.

Laughing, Makoto says, “Of course,” when Haru points this out to him. “We’re not a caravan. Anyway, you’ll understand once you have to run your first getaway. When soldiers are after you, it’s the trust between you and her that matters, not your steel or your strength. Delpha’s probably saved my life more often than I’ve saved hers. One time we botched a job, I got separated from the rest of the crew. Me and her spent a week and a half squashed into this tiny little cave, half a dozen pissed-off mercs staking us out outside. We almost ran out of water _and_ there were snakes.” He smiles ruefully. “Lucky; we both had snake for dinner that night.”

“They eat snake?”

“They’ll eat anything if they’re hungry enough—not unlike us.”

Iwatobi also moves in a very different pattern than Haru’s used to. Instead of the usual long, sweaty slog in the day and exhausted rest in the dead of night, they travel in three cycles of sleep-and-ride. He has to adapt to catnapping in scant slivers of two or three hours, and half those under the dead press of midday heat, the sand burning like iron through his clothes.

Still, he doesn’t mind. There’s something enchanting about riding at night—it’s different from gazing up at the sky in the few minutes before sleep. It surprises him, how the stars rise and set just as much as the sun, how the moon shrinks every night from a bloated gold coin to a pale white circle. Leagues away from any manmade light, the sky is as cracked with colors as if some giant had spilled a sack of powdered dyes over its velvet-black curve. Sometimes, when there’s no light to draw the line between ground and sky, Haru gets the dizzying feeling that he’ll float straight off the earth’s surface and be sucked into that infinite distance. It’s those times he’s thankful for these (still mostly) strange men around him, the solid feel of Ankle’s smooth hide, the gentle shuffle of hooves in sand anchoring him.

He’s sure harder times will be coming soon, but for now, he’s enjoying things. He likes Gou, finds it amusing how her eyes wander haphazardly all over a man’s body but step as surely over the stars as a king’s—“Gemini’s too far to our left. Turn a little.” And he likes Makoto, Makoto who’s everywhere at once, talking amiably to the men, to Gou, to him, the outsider, making sure everything’s in working order in his unobtrusive way. Even the dromads reach out for him when he walks by, and more often than not are rewarded with some treat slipped from his pocket.

He’s been in and out of the tent all day, today. He slides out of it for the third time as Haru’s trying to light the fire.

“It hasn’t laid a spell on you, has it?” he asks, struggling with the flint.

“I can’t hear it talk—not that I really believe that, anyway.” Makoto frowns. “I think it’s sick.”

A gust of wind whisks the beginnings of Haru’s flame away. Makoto crouches—“here, let me—” and efficiently strikes out sparks against the little pile of tinder, cupping the flame in his palm until it’s grown strong enough to stand against the wind.

 “The water,” offers Haru.

“Sorry?”

“Maybe it’s the water.”

“It is pretty cloudy. But we can’t really do anything about it, not until we reach Damesthebeba.”

“Once you sell it, it’s not your problem, anyway.”

“I know. Maybe—maybe Gou can talk to whoever buys it, make sure they, you know, change the water,” he says hopefully.

“Are you _sure_ it hasn’t spelled you?”

“I swear—”

“Joking.” Makoto falls silent, looking chastised, and Haru bites his lip to keep from laughing. The guy’s built like a lion, but his demeanor is closer to a puppy’s. There isn’t a speck of cruelty in those eyes. Again, Haru catches himself wondering why a man more suited to healing than hurting is helping command a legion of bandits. “You care a lot about—things.”

Makoto half-laughs. “I thought it was only people up till now, but I guess sirens count too?”

“And animals,” Haru adds, patting his dromad’s foot.

“Actually, back home we had a bunch of houseplants too, and—”

“Worst bandit ever,” mutters Haru. After a second, he asks, “Why are you…?”

“Honestly? You’ll probably be disappointed, it’s so mundane. I just want the money.”

“…that is a little disappointing.”

“Haru’s so mean!”

“You’re a robber, you’re not supposed to care.”

“…Fair point, I guess.”

“You’re not keeping it for yourself,” Haru guesses.

“No. It’s for my family.”

“Wife?”

“God, no! I’m only twenty-one—no. My parents, and—I have two little siblings. Twins, boy and girl. My mom and dad, they’re shopkeepers in this little town in Hoet, so they’re not exactly rich, you know? And the king—”

“Taxes,” mutters Haru. It’s difficult on everyone, but for a family, it must be even worse. The royals don’t make exceptions for dependents. They don’t make exceptions for anyone except themselves.

“I just—I’m really afraid for them. I caught my brother stealing once. It wasn’t his fault, he was hungry, but it scared me, a lot. He was seven, that’s too young to…”

Haru understands. They hang thieves, or cut their hands off if they’re children. He’d like to think one’s better than the other, but it’s not much of a choice. “They’ll kill you, if they catch you,” he says.

Makoto smiles drily. “If,” is all he says. “And until then, there’s the money.” He points at the sky, and Haru traces his finger to two pinpoints sparkling like gems at the ends of a bow. “Ren and Ran,” he says, finger flicking from one to the other. “That’s their names. My parents looked high.”

Haru nods. The cruxes of the twin blades of Gemini, ruler of the spring-summer change, the warming air and growing things. It’s a good sign, he thinks, and not less because the formation rests right under Ahanliya the swordsman, protector of Heaven’s gateway.

He’d always thought the sky a lonely place, and especially at night. All these bits of light, battling vainly against the dark, constellations wrestling their shadows, so far away. Now, he wonders what it’s like to look up and see your family. What it’s like to fight for something, not against.

The boy next to him is still gazing heavenwards, starry-eyed.

()

When they finally, _finally_ dismount for the day, the captain of the guard laughs at Rei’s bow-legged, wincing walk. Rei’s almost too sore to care about their sneers. _Not all of us can be used to this barbaric lifestyle._

Step, throb. Crouching is a pain-ridden exploration of muscles worn stiff as washboards. He’s ridden before, of course, but not often, and certainly never like this. In the city he’d always walk or hire a rickshaw.

_Womanish,_ that part of him sneers.

_Be quiet._

But it doesn’t, of course. It’s never so easy to get rid of. _If only they knew about the rest, eh? Not just scholar, but queer-tempered? An oddling. They hang men like you._

He tugs loose a buckle on his boot, empties out sand and a few pebbles. _They hang everyone for everything these days._

_But this is different. People cheer when oddlings swing. Ordinary people_ hate _you—mothers and fathers, schoolchildren, your fellow doctors. Men of arms, above all. You think these soldiers would tolerate you for a second if they knew what you wanted? What you dream about?_

He licks his lips, parched. _I said, shut up._

_Or maybe they already know. They all look at you funny. Laugh at you. Maybe they’re just waiting to hurt you. Way out in this desert, surrounded. No one would come help you. No one would hear you. Just like that time—_

_Shut_ up. That was years ago, anyway, back before he learned how to hide it, to school his face, his body. To parrot other men’s coarse appreciation of the female form like some street entertainer’s penny-pulling bird. He avoids quiet alleys at night, now, and drunkenness in others’ company, and always carries a heavy knife in his pocket.

_Wouldn’t know in the slightest how to use it. Never wielded a weapon in his life, no, never fought back, not that time nor the others. Healer. Book-reader. Soft hands. Queer. Unnatural—_

“Ryuugazaki?”

A hand on his shoulder; he can’t help the recoil, or the slight hitch in his voice when he says, “Yes?”

“You’re all right?”

“I think so, yes. Thank you.” _Never alright, never normal._ He quashes the voice back down, with difficulty. It’s the damn boredom of this long ride, surrounded by other men, that brings on thoughts like these. The taint of old fear coils in his stomach, hissing. He has to keep from asking himself, over and over, if this or that person knows. The members of the company have been nothing but civil to him, he tells himself firmly, so there’s no reason to balk like some frightened animal when one of them comes near.

The man grunts. “Better save your thanks; we’re heading out again in ten.”

“Good God almighty,” Rei sighs. “You’ll be the death of me yet.” He pats the neck of his dromad. _At the very least, you don’t have any thoughts against me._

The dromad whinnies and bites at his hand, and Rei laughs, pulling his fingers away. Well, maybe, but these don’t bother him.

()

The next day, they reach Damesthebeba.

It emerges alarmingly suddenly from the desert wastes, tucked deep within a winding canyon sunken into the ground and threatening to vanish beneath the massive dunes surrounding it at any moment. From any angle but one, a passersby would see only innocuous sand. Approached the right way, like coaxing an animal, the city yields up a bounty of gold, alcohol, and questionable morality. The place is armed to the teeth, bristling with turrets and walls and huge heavy doors. If Gou wasn’t riding with full confidence inwards, Haru would feel a little afraid.

The people certainly don’t ease his mind. At first he thinks everyone’s glaring at them, but he quickly realizes that everyone’s glaring at everyone. Glaring’s the default expression here, it seems; wrapped once again in her vermillion head-scarf, Gou’s sending some major side-eye of her own.

“Welcome to the city of crooks,” says Makoto cheerfully, waving at someone over the heads of the crowd. Haru snorts. Of course, Makoto would’ve made friends even in a place like this. Stalking through the crowd elbows-up, Gou gives Haru a long-suffering look. Haru would pity her, but it’s not like she _had_ to bring Makoto. In fact, he’d thought it rather strange that she’d insisted on bringing not only her second-in-command but also himself, hardly a trusted member of the crew—until he realized she was just choosing the fittest men to escort her.

They’ve left most of the caravan outside the city proper. The tank is too big and its contents too valuable for them to take inside the walls. Instead, whatever purchaser Gou is looking for will be taken to the cart, and the whole thing handed off, leaving Iwatobi free to retreat into the desert at all speed. The crew is on edge; Gou seems confident that the guard will swoop down on them at any moment, and she intends to make the sale today.

“In here.” She gestures at a tavern that seems to have been carved straight into a wall of the canyon. “And easy with the hands, boys—you don’t want this guy to fright.”

Haru senses danger the moment he enters the room. The air outside, seething and roiling like hot oil, congeals rapidly in the cool dark to a suffocating thickness. It’s quiet, eerily so. Men’s eyes gleam in candlelight like wolves’. Swallowing, Haru keeps his hand well away from the hilt of his sword.

Stares track them lazily as they make their way to the back. The man waiting there is even bigger than Makoto, musclebound as the two sandwolves sitting at his feet. Their chains clink as he and Gou, impossibly slim-looking in comparison, bow slightly to one another.

“Captain Gou.”

“Kairas.”

He rises suddenly, and Haru feels Makoto tense behind him. Gou doesn’t give an inch.

“I saw your convoy come in.”

“You know we have it, then.”

The man flashes his teeth at them, more a grimace than a grin. “And we the payment.” He sets his goblet down on the table; the bowl of it is the size of Haru’s head. “A drink for the lady?”

“I’m afraid I’m in rather a hurry,” says Gou, voice colder than desert frost.

Kairas nods, slowly. “You and I both, Captain. Let’s ride.” He flicks one of his fingers slightly and one of his men streaks off, probably to alert his crew that the deal’s been brokered.

Gou and Kairas ride ahead; their respective guards follow behind, jostling uneasily. One of the men, strong-lean and scrawny like a hyena, points at his ragged, deformed left ear and spits at Makoto. “Someday, Blackfish,” he hisses.

“I’ll rematch anytime,” Makoto answers evenly, a foreign tang of steel in his voice.

“I’ll use my teeth, like you did. I’ll go slow.”

After a moment of taut silence, Makoto urges his dromad a few paces forward.

()

“Your Highness.”

“Let it be known that I’m going to fucking ignore you if you call me that.”

Nitori sighs. “We should probably slow down. You’re going to wear them out if we keep going at this rate.” After a few moments of tetchy silence, Nitori pulls his dromad to an even walk, forcing Rin to follow suit a few minutes later. “And you don’t have to keep glancing around like that, you’ll just give yourself a crick in the neck. It’s highly unlikely they’ll take this route with that big of a group, and anyway, even if they did see us they wouldn’t think anything of two travelers.”

“Do you always have to be so damn reasonable?”

“I’d be more than happy to be the crazy paranoid one if you wanted to switch someday.”

“...I don’t think you could if you tried.”

“My Prince would be astonished at the things I’ve picked up from him.”

Truth be told, the guard’s the least of Rin’s worries. The farther out they get, the more he’s realizing what a half-assed plan this is. Not for _him_ ; by now, he’s more than proficient at getting away with all sorts of trouble. No, it’s Nitori he’s worried about.

This always seems to happen. Rin cooks up some cock-headed scheme, Nitori faithfully tags along, and in the end Rin somehow manages to pull princely privileges and get Nitori out of any serious consequences. But this, this is serious, and it’s only now, with Nitori rattling away about something or other by his side that he’s realizing it.

Rin sighs. He’s always so shit at this—at thinking about others. At taking care of the people around him. He couldn’t protect his mother, or his sister, and this time he might not be able to protect Nitori. Is it because he’s a prince, or would he have been this selfish even if he’d been born a commoner? He doesn’t know which bothers him more.

He’s always tried to fight it—that inbred, in-looking, _royal_ way of thinking. He reminds himself of his position at least a hundred times a day, but he’s not a prince just a hundred times a day, he’s a prince all the time, day and night, and it’s like being slowly poisoned, being surrounded by all those painted-on smiles.

 Sometimes he gets so sick of this trap that’s his life that he wants to scream at everyone, hurl precious things out the window of his room, kick open doors and bruise things that don’t matter. But then what would people say— _look at the royal brat, throwing tantrums again. Just like his father. Just like Father._

The day someone tells him that, Rin’s sworn to himself he’ll go jump out a window or something.

So he sulks and snaps instead, and one time punches the wall and _yells_ because he was unprepared for the pain, and then has to get stitches put in his knuckles. _Stupid, stupid._ Nitori had called him an idiot, then, behind the relative privacy of the sickroom curtains. Rin half-smiles. Yeah, Nitori’s good for him. He might be an annoying little bitch sometimes, but then again, Rin’s pretty sure that’s just himself rubbing off on him.

Nitori’s waving a hand in front of his face. “Hello? Anyone in there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I was fucking listening.”

“What was I talking about, then?”

“…probably not anything important.”

“Rude, your Highness. As a matter of fact, it was rather important.”

“Just spit it out, already.”

“As I was _saying_ , we’ll be at Damesthebeba by nightfall.” When Rin stares blankly at him, Nitori prompts, “Did you have, say, a plan or something? Or were we more favoring the, ah, ‘running-around-like-headless-chickens’ method of approaching our murder most foul? And before you say yes, let me remind you that the last time we tried that—”

“Very funny. You’ll be happy to know I do indeed have a plan.”

“I’m relieved and pleasantly surprised, your Highness.”

“Yeah, save your relief for after we get away with it.”

“I have full faith in you,” says Nitori, and the damnable thing is that Rin knows that Nitori means it.

_Well_ , he tells himself, _that just means you can’t fail._ The thought isn’t reassuring in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mehhh not a fan of this chapter. it's one of those weird-inbetweeners. more action/plot to come in the next one!


	4. Chapter 4

Haru can’t help staring at the trunks as Kairas’ men unload them, staggering bow-legged across the sand in pairs like a misshapen crab. Earlier, Gou had flipped the lid of one open with her dagger and nearly blinded Haru with the flash of light on gold. Pure, merciless wealth; half the king’s treasury must go through this town every day.

Meanwhile, Gou’s men are unhitching the four dromads they’d been using to pull the cart. They snort, pawing at the sand, eager to get away from their strange, heavy harnesses.

Makoto keeps glancing at the sky, no doubt urging on the onslaught of sunset. After dark, Damesthebeba seals up like a tortoise in its shell, the winds set to whipping up blinds of sand all around, and all the men of Samezuka’s army couldn’t pry its residents out. Gou doesn’t like staying in the city, but if they don’t have time to make good tracks before the sun falls, she’ll most likely have them shelter the night. Better to sleep with one eye open and knife in hand then to wake to king’s steel in the throat.

Probably, Kairas is aware of the price on his prize’s head. Still, watching him stare at the tank, his pale blue eyes soaking in its light like thirsty teeth, Haru can only imagine he finds the risk worth taking. “Aye, you’ve right delivered this time, lassie,” he growls, and before anyone can protest, vaults right into the tank.

Haru sees the siren’s mouth open in an ‘o’ of surprise as muddy boots thud down in flurries of bubbles. In a single swift motion, the man grabs it by the throat and lifts it out of the water.

“Kairas!” shouts Gou as the siren thrashes, water writhing in rivulets down its silver-scaled tail. It chokes out something that sounds an awful lot like “please.”

“What the hell are you doing? Put it down!”

He drops it just as suddenly. Haru winces as it hits the bottom of the tank with an audible thud.

“Don’t sound so concerned, Captain, ‘s none of your business now. ‘Sides, everyone knows you’ve got to wait to dawn to kill it, else the scales turn to ash.”

“Don’t tell me you believe that bullshit.”

He shrugs, grinning. “Not me, darlin’, but there’s plenty of fools who do. You’ve got a right skinny one there, but by my reckoning that tail’ll still serve lots of ‘em. Take your gold and run, Captain. Come tomorrow I’ll have a hundred pieces of immortality to sell. Compared to that, my gold’s nothing but a song.”

A coldness settles over the siren’s expression, sudden as a curtain drawing closed. It’s like he understands what’s going to happen to him.

He bares his teeth and sinks them abruptly into Kairas’ ankle.

A jet of blood swirls, delicate as silk, into the water. Kairas screams. The siren _grinds_ its teeth, small and pointy as needles, into his ankle, savaging it. Pieces of pants cloth shred like petals around them.

And then Haru and the others can only watch as he kicks the siren off, kicks it again and again against the unyielding glass of the tank until its hand loosens, and again, until the water is also being stained deep blue-violet. Horrified, Haru thinks, _so it is true they bleed blue.._.

Kairas crawls out of the tank with a snarl. The pointed toe of one of his boots is colored ultramarine. Brushing the proffered hand of one of his men away, he growls, “Just hitch the fucking thing up and get it into the city.”

“Better bind that quickly,” Gou calls as he limps heavily out of the tent. “I’ve heard their bites are poisonous.” Her tone of voice suggests she hopes it’s true.

Suddenly, Makoto kneels in front of the tank, where the siren is swiping at its split lips with one delicate hand, other arm braced around its stomach. “I’m so sorry,” he mutters, pressing a hand to the glass, which ripples and throbs with the light of the spell. “I didn’t know it was going to be like this.”

“It can’t understand you, Makoto,” says Gou wearily.

“I know, but—”

“But nothing! It’s done!” she snaps. After a moment, she gentles: “Come on, Mako-tan. I know you feel bad, but you can’t do anything now. It’s over.”

Still, Haru can’t help glancing over his shoulder again as he leaves the tent. The siren’s got a hand pressed to the glass, too. It mouths something, lost to the sound-spell.

“Its eyes,” mutters Makoto to no one in particular. “I swear it could understand us.”

Haru knows without asking that he’s imagining himself in its place. Imagining himself counting the hours till dawn, horribly alone and impossibly far from home.

()

Even though they’re considerably lighter on their feet without the burden of the tank, the sun is well on its way to setting before everything’s hitched up and ready to go. Kairas turns to Gou, his leg swollen under a makeshift bandage. “What d’you say to splitting an inn, Captain? Better for me to keep your company than try to hide a fishman in this stinkin’ city of thieves. Will only be for a night, then you can go your pretty way.”

With a sigh and a gaze at the implacable sky, Gou orders them into the city for the night. Even though it seems like Makoto’s still pretty pissed at Gou —well, as pissed as someone like him can get—he sticks unusually close by her side as they ride through the teeth of the city’s gates. Haru can understand—tough as she is, Gou’s still a girl, and she cannot fight off all the desperate, animal-like men of Damesthebeba on her own no matter how sharp she keeps her sword or her tongue.

They settle at a true hovel of an inn near the edge of the city, one that both Kairas and Gou are familiar with. The innkeeper protests when they order him to keep the entire inn for just their two crews, but the jangle of a few pieces of gold shuts him up. Still jittery, Gou orders them to keep their dromads in harness and most of the carts hitched outside; they’ll move as soon as dawn arrives and the winds die down. More likely than not, Haru guesses, she doesn’t want to be around for the bidding frenzy that’ll start up as soon as the siren dies.

Makoto so obviously feels guilty that, as they’re bedding down on the inn’s dusty ground floor, Haru feels the need to whisper, “You couldn’t have done anything.”

“I know, but I still feel terrible.”

“Stupid consciences.”

He smiles wanly. “Right? Thanks, though.”

“Try to sleep.”

“Nah, won’t be able.” He scratches the head of his dromad, offering him slices of peo fruit from his pocket. “I already told the Captain I’ll take first watch. You should sleep, though—tomorrow’ll be a hard ride, she’ll probably want to put a lot of distance between us and the city.”

“Mm,” he mumbles, shifting to avoid one of the Iwatobi members’ elbows. Outside, the winds are beginning to howl. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I won’t.”

Still, he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he didn’t know Hanewa and Jin were also taking watch. They’ll keep Makoto from performing any stupid heroics. With luck, all of them will make it out of this alive.

Well, all the humans, at least. Trying to ignore niggling memories of his grandmother, Haru closes his eyes, chest tight and heavy with guilt. “Night.”

“Good night, Haru.”

()

He awakes with a jolt.

A snore, Haru realizes. Whoever’s sleeping next to him is snoring like thunder, the sound sawing right through the shrieking wind. _Gods, that’s loud._ He gives the man a solid kick and promptly bites back a curse. His toes feel fucking bruised.

Wait—

“Makoto?” he whispers. As his eyes adjust to the dark, there’s no mistaking the man slumped next to him.

_I thought he was taking watch._ He prods him in the cheek. “Hey. Makoto.” The man doesn’t move an inch. _He’s really out_. A sudden bolt of fear runs through Haru—has he collapsed for some reason?

“Are you okay?” This time, he slaps him pretty hard in the face—anyone should wake up from that. But Makoto still doesn’t respond.

That’s when Haru catches sight of the thin shaft sticking out of the side of his neck, a tiny thing no longer than the upper joint of his pinky.

_A dart…?_

He reaches for it, squinting. Steel grooves slide slick as serpents’ scales beneath his hands. This is a finely-made weapon. It feels like capitol gear, but that can’t be.

His hand slides to the hilt of his dagger as he rises silently. Everyone’s asleep. _Everyone._ That’s Jin, asleep on the floor, and Hanewa lies a little further down, half his body out the doorway. Both of them have been stuck with darts, too. Through a lull in the wind, he hears the dromads whinnying uneasily.

Stepping lightly, Haru moves outside.

Any stars and moon are obscured nearly entirely by the sand howling through the streets. He winces as grit claws at him, raising an arm into the wind. A nearby dromad snuffles at him softly as he grabs its flank for balance. There’s a trail of bodies resting in the sand. Haru’s heart leaps. He nudges one with his foot, and it turns slightly, letting out a grunt of sleep.

Crouched low, he makes his way quickly to the massive chassis holding the tank, blade out. He breaks into a sprint when he hears a curse from inside, followed by a low gurgle. 

He sweeps back the canvas flap, flicking wildly and undone in the wind, and blinks sand out of his eyes. There’s a man in front of him, red-headed, decked in black riding gear. He’s holding a wicked scimitar shedding red like wine onto the ground, and he’s looking straight at the wide-eyed siren.

Haru thinks vaguely, _that’s Kairas on the ground,_ and jumps the man, shouting “Help! Intruder!”

The man reacts impossibly fast. The curve of his blade as he turns nearly catches Haru in the throat. Haru blocks it with his dagger, gritting his teeth as the force of the blow rings up his arm. “Drop it,” he cautions him. “You’re outnumbered.”

“Fuck you,” the man growls, and swipes at Haru’s side with a tiny jeweled dagger.

Just in time, Haru leaps back. _Ambidextrous,_ interesting. But he’s not the only one—

“Haru!”

_That’s Gou._ “In here!” he shouts.

“Fire!” calls a third voice. “Fire on the ridge!” A horn blast shatters the wind, bellow echoing across the city.

The man stares out the side of the tent. “No…”

Gou clambers into the tent, and the man goes completely white.

“ _You_ —”

He hesitates for a fatal moment, she leaps at him, and in two seconds Gou’s knife is pressed hard against his throat.

 “Drop the blade.”

“Or what—”

She tugs the knife closer and a line of blood open up on the man’s pale neck. For some reason, he’s laughing hysterically, even as he opens his hand and the scimitar clatters to the dust. “Oh, fuck me. _Fuck_ me. I should’ve known—”

“Shut up,” she hisses, “or I’ll slit your royal throat open.”

“At least leave Nitori out of this?”

“Shut _up._ Haru, wake the others. We have to go.”

Haru can’t break himself away from the man’s eyes—the exact same wine-clear color as Gou’s, sparking flint-like with rage in the dull light  of the tank. Lion’s eyes.

“What do they mean, fire?”

“It means, pretty boy,” spits the man, still struggling against Gou’s arm, “that the king’s men are here.” He flicks a glance at the siren. “To take back what’s his.”

“Haru, _go_!”

He goes, but there’s no need—everyone’s already up, roused by the horn blast, and scrambling to ride. Makoto and the others are still comatose, and Haru grabs one of his legs and helps the others heave him onto one of the sturdier dromads, another rider mounting close behind. One of the men speeds off  towards the gate, no doubt to get the thing raised. A glance skywards freezes Haru’s breath in his throat—fire is racing down the steep side of the dune towards them, combed horizontal in strands of burning orange by the wind. They’re rolling huge barrels of pitch or oil down the hill, hundreds of them. They’re going to burn them out.

Haru’s eyes shoot to the canyon. One way in, one way out.

The herd is panicking now, their cries shivering skywards as they strain away from the fire. Cursing, Haru struggles to grab the reins of Gou’s majestic piebald. But he jerks viciously away and runs off with a scream.

“No!”

“It’s fine! Go, go! You, get the fuck on—” As Haru finally manages to locate Ankle, Gou wrestles her captive onto one of the four dromads still hitched to the chassis. Unused to her scent or the stranger’s, Kairas’ animals buck and yell, and she yells back, squeezing her legs to stay on her mount’s saddleless back. Astonishingly, they settle quickly—Gou’s always been good with the animals.

The stranger snickers. “You might want to let go of that knife, little lady, else you’ll fall off—”

“We’ll both fall.”

“Alright, alright, _methrad,_ I got it.” He grabs the reins in one large hand and flicks them hard against the dromad’s neck, murmuring a command, and it sprints forward. “This is okay, right?”

The gate’s barely creaking open as Haru reaches it; he has to duck to keep its iron teeth from catching him in the face. He reins in Ankle quickly, turning around. The chassis is hurtling towards the gate full-tilt. _It’s not going to make it._ He tenses for the shatter of glass—

But, astonishingly, the thing somehow slides under, although the canvas covering gets caught on the spikes and is swept off. Shouts beat the air as the slower riders run into the cloth, bursting through with raised arms or shredding straight through with upraised weapons.

Something thuds into the ground at Ankle’s feet; she shrieks and takes off down the canyon. Black steel lays out a macabre forest around them. _At least they didn’t set the arrows on fire,_ thinks Haru, as he yanks Ankle around a three-foot shaft.

“Cease!” yells Gou from behind them. “I have your prince! Cease your fire for the throne!”

Haru doesn’t know whether she’s totally bullshitting or if there’s some grain of truth in this claim. Either way, the arrows stop abruptly as shouted orders echo along the canyon ridge. He forces his head down, narrowing his eyes against the sand as it batters and scratches his face. He’s thankful for it. Without the sand in their eyes and the wind snatching at their weapons, there’s no way the king’s guard would be missing them this often.

“It’s Iwatobi!” Gou’s captive shouts. “Fire, you fools!”

“Shut _up_!” There’s a loud crack and then silence; Haru guesses that Gou’s headbutted the man into silence. From above, frantic yells: “I hear him, it’s the prince! Stop! Stop!” 

The road is widening up and sloping skywards; they’re nearing the mouth of the canyon. There’ll be guards there. Haru switches the reins to one hand, steadying the other around the hilt of his sword.

There’s the first of them, but they’re not attacking, swaying in confusion as shadowy riders whip past them into the open desert and their officers yell at them to stop. “The prince—where’s the prince—”

Haru leans back to look, but Gaminh, one of Iwatobi’s men, grabs him by the arm and hauls him onwards. “Don’t look back—”

“But the Captain—”

“She’ll be all right. We’ve plans for this.” The man releases his arm and spurs his dromad on. “Ride faster, newbie. We need to be in Jethuba by dawnbreak.”

A little late, a company of guards breaks off the flank of the force and gives pursuit. Iwatobi splits like cinders from a fire, shooting off in different directions. Haru understands now, why the bandits lavish care and attention on their dromads so—the animals don’t so much run as vanish into the crack of opening dawn, like ghosts. The king’s mounts aren’t bad, but they’re no match for speed. Still, they ride their dromads nearly into the ground, getting away. Beneath Haru, Ankle’s muscles pump hot and steady as iron bellows, her breath steaming in the cold air. He’s no great rider, and can only cling onto her neck, praying she doesn’t misstep.

Eventually, they slow, nearly imperceptibly. Haru turns and sees black specks halted some half-kilometer away. “Why did they stop?” he pants, patting Ankle’s heaving neck.

“They won’t follow us into Jethuba,” Gaminh replies, “not too far. Royal guards are cowards. They’ll wait for their superiors to regroup first. This way.”

Soon, they catch sight of the rest of Iwatobi, gathered at the foot of a plateau like a tiny, heaving pile of ash. Bringing Ankle to a halt, Haru catches sight of a few of them trying to rouse Makoto.

“Is he okay?”

“Aye, perfectly—just sleeping like a babe.”

“Good timing,” calls another, “to sleep through all the work.”

Haru wheels Ankle back around and peers east.

“You all right, newbie?”

“I’m fine. Where’s Gou?”

“She’ll be along presently. You’ll see.”

Haru shakes his head, annoyed. “You keep saying that. How do you _know_ she’s coming?”

Gaminh grabs him by the arm. “C’mere.” They ride back up the steep slope to the plateau’s top, picking their way through sand churned by dozens of hoofmarks. He squints, then points. “There. Y’see?”

“What? I don’t see any…”

But then he does.

The chassis crawls slowly down the edge of the dune, trailing white scarves of sand. The sun shoots through the water in the exposed tank, turning its shadow into a starburst on a leash, a tamed diamond.


	5. Chapter 5

“I knew it.”

“Rin—”

“I fucking _knew it._ ”

Makoto is glancing from one to the other, looking thoroughly confused. “Ah, Gou, sorry, but who…?”

“Gou?” spits the man. “Who the hell is Gou? That’s Kou. _Princess_ Kou.”

“Not anymore,” says Gou—Kou—the Captain, tightly. “I—”

“You know they all still think you’re dead?”

“Could you just—”

“Childbirth, my ass. I knew it. I fucking—”

“Wait,” says Makoto, “Wait, hang on, what does he mean _Princess_? Gou, how do you know this guy?”

“He’s my brother, okay!” shouts Gou, squeezing her eyes shut.

“…But he’s the prince,” Makoto stammers.

Haru blinks. “What?”

The captive turns around to snarl at him. Haru’s captivated by his canines—Gou’s teeth are perfectly normal, after all. He wonders if he’s ever bitten himself on accident before. “So you didn’t know. Maybe you would’ve thought twice before atta—”

“…not really.”

“ _What?_ Who the fuck do you think—”

“Can we talk about exactly how Gou’s related to a prince again?” says Makoto, sounding increasingly alarmed.

“I’d do it again,” says Haru.

“You—I fucking dare you.”

Haru raises a brow. “ _That’s_ a prince?”

“You little _shit—_ ”

“Brother dearest,” says Gou, “Before you go making any threats you can’t keep, let me remind you you’re tied up tighter than a pig on a stake.”

“Yeah, thanks to your pet giant over there—”

“Sorry,” says Makoto.

“Don’t apologize,” bark Rin and Haru at the same time. Rin turns and gives him a furious look. Haru shrugs.

“Wait, does that mean, you’re actually a princess?” says Makoto for about the twentieth time, sounding nearly hysterical. “That means I should have been calling you ‘your Highness’ or something this whole time, right?”

“Oh, please,” she mutters, although Haru has to say she looks rather pleased. “I’m just Gou.”

“Kou,” mutters Rin from the dirt. “And what the hell did you guys do with Nitori?”

“You dragged _him_ into this?”

“He wanted to come!”

“…so who’s Nitori?”

“Okay,” says Gou, “okay, everyone, just—”

()

“I can’t believe you’re actually a princess,” says Makoto.

“I can’t believe my sister’s a bandit,” spits Rin.

Haru doesn’t say anything. When Makoto casts him a despairing look, he just shrugs. In the last few weeks, he’s learned it’s often better not to question things too much.

By things, he means things like the captain, aka Gou, aka Kou, aka Her Royal Highness the Princess Absolute Matsuoka Kou, is undoubtedly and unhappily related to His Royal Highness the Prince Absolute Matsuoka Rin, aka heir to the throne Samezuka, aka Rin, aka that loud-mouthed asshole. Although that last one is mainly Haru’s own invention.

The story went something like this. At the behest of the king’s advisors, Gou was married off at fifteen to the neighboring tribute-nation of Nehnquel. It was an unhappy marriage, with the prince pining for another girl, and Gou pining for freedom. An arrangement was hatched. At seventeen, Gou escaped, her secret to be kept by the prince of Nehnquel in exchange for Gou’s blessings to marry Princess Amashiwa, his childhood sweetheart. The funeral for the erstwhile Prince-Consort of Nehnquel, the gold-inlaid coffin and the requisite funeral tour was expensive, but the prince had been more than willing to pay for it.

“She—the body looked like you,” protested Rin, interrupting Gou, and Gou had shrugged. “Doctors,” she replied, waving her hand.

“Corpse-wranglers.”

She fixes him with a glare. “It worked, didn’t it?”

After a moment, Rin breaks and looks away. “I knew it, though,” he mutters. “I knew something was up.”

“Then why didn’t you tell the old man?”

Rin snorts. “As if he’d have cared.”

Gou glances away. After a moment, Rin amends, “…I mean, he doesn’t care about me, either. So…”

“Whatever; I don’t care,” Gou says so coldly that it’s obvious she’s hurt. “It’s better like this anyway. Are you going to tell him?”

“Are you going to let me go?”

“Mmmmmm-nope.”

“God _damn_ it,” sighs Rin. After a moment, he adds hopefully, “Did you at least ditch the fish-boy?”

A faint but insistent splashing emerges in the silence.

“Fucking—” Haru’s sure the redhead would’ve made a rude gesture if his hands hadn’t been fastened behind his back. “Well, that’s it then. We’re fucked. The guards’ll be after you because of me, and we can’t run because of a goddamn fish.”

 _We’re?_ thinks Haru.

“Speak for yourself,” says Gou. “I haven’t been caught so far, and I don’t intend to be just because I’m burdened with an overgrown baby of a prince. Hanewa, Yuujin, watch him, please. Makoto, get the charts. We need to find more water, and quickly—I tried to drive smoothly, but that tank’s near empty.”

Rin bites his lip, then says in a rush, “There’s a little oasis not far from here. Due nearly north.”

Gou laughs, scoffing. “Good try, brother, but who’s the one who’s been cooped up behind castle walls these last years? There’s nothing north of here, except maybe a company of guards waiting for us.”

“I’m not fucking lying. It’s not on the charts yet—the palace cartographers were planning to draft it into the next _Geographia_.”

“And you know this because what, you’ve suddenly taken an interest in studying local hydrology?”

“I scoped the whole region out beforehand. I was planning to, to lie low there. If I… after…”

Gou frowns at him. “What _were_ you trying to do, anyway?”

“Kill the siren, what do you think? Or did you love our dearest father so much that you’d want him on the throne forever?” He snorts and looks away. “That’d make you the only one in the kingdom. There’s no love lost between he and I, Kou. Especially after—after he sent you away. I made, ah, a bit of a fucking fuss. Got thrown behind the royal bars for a week or two, the whole package. Yeah, that was a pleasant stay. Even earned myself some stripes.”

Haru sees Gou’s eyes flick involuntarily to Rin’s back, the pitted whip scars marring his skin like cracked rock. “You idiot. Prince or not, he’s _king._ He could have had you killed.”

“Dunno why he hasn’t yet.” He chuckles a little, and looks at his feet. “Worth it, though. I—” He clears his throat. “‘m really glad you’re, ah, alive. And everything.”

“You idiot,” Gou says again. Suddenly, she crouches down and hugs him fiercely. Draws back and holds his face in her hands. “Truth, brother?”

“Truth, I swear on our house,” he says quietly. “But do you trust me?”

()

Rin turns around and holds his bound hands out to Gou expectantly.

She frowns at him. “If you think I’m going to…”

He scoffs at her. “Come on, Kou. You know I’m better with a dromad than any of these guys. If your little exploring party runs into trouble at the oasis, they’ll wish I was there.”

“The only thing you’re better than everyone at is being a total ass.”

He grins at her, shark-toothed. “Maybe. Doesn’t change the other stuff I said.”

In the end, it’s Makoto, somewhat surprisingly, who intervenes on Rin’s behalf. “It’ll be easier following him than going off a map that doesn’t even have the place marked, anyway. I’ll keep an eye on him, promise.”

“Yeah,” chips in Rin, looking pleased, “listen to your boyfr—”

Gou makes a violent motion and Makoto says quite calmly, “You know, it’d be really helpful if you stopped talking for a while,” to which Rin makes what can only be called a sulking face. Although he does shut up.

As for himself, Haru’s pretty sure Gou throws him into the landing party for the express purpose of irritating her brother, but it doesn’t bother him. He has to admit, there is something immensely gratifying about pissing the guy off. And yeah, there’s probably some dire consequence or other of talking shit to a royal personage that involves tortuous pain and limb loss, but somehow Haru can’t bring himself to care.

Rin’s hands are cut free with a great deal of mistrustful glowering on Gou’s part. To his credit, he doesn’t immediately try to bolt. Instead, he walks over to the dromad that’s been saddled for him and presses his forehead against its, saying something to it in a low voice. Then he reaches over the animal’s back and throws most of its harness off.

“What?” he snaps at the staring group as the dromad nickers approvingly. “That shit only slows you down.”

“…you’re really a prince?” mutters Haru under his breath.

“What’d you say?” he snaps.

“O- _kay_ , well, we’d better get going.” Makoto finishes fixing Iwatobi’s cage to the horn of his saddle. “Haru, Prince—”

“It’s _Matsuoka_ ,” he snaps, and clicks his tongue at the dromad. “ _Var. Komm, var._ ” It breaks into a slow trot and Rin takes a running start, grabs a fistful of mane, and vaults onto the animal’s back, at once utterly lacking in form and completely graceful. He moves like man when man was still in his raw stages, all half-forged chunks of the primordial fallen star and feral shadow. Haru finds himself holding his breath, watching him.

“Matsuoka,” amends Makoto agreeably, and Haru glances sharply away. “Shall we?”

()

The ride is tense with suspicion (their side’s) and blatant hostility (Rin’s), but within a few hours Haru catches sight of the messy heads of palm trees nodding and swaying, and breathes out, slowly.

There’s no one at the (tiny) oasis but a large herd of screw-horned antelopes, tussling for position around the water’s edge.

“Great, all clear with fifty sides of deer ass,” grumbles Rin. “Report _that_ to your Captain.”

Ignoring him—a skill that in Haru’s opinion deserves some sort of award—Makoto takes a bit of green string out of his pocket and ties it to one of Iwatobi’s claws. He undoes the cage’s latch. “Go home, Iwatobi.” The hawk shoots out of the cage and is a small brown dot in a matter of seconds—it’ll fly straight for Gou, delivering her the all-clear.

“I’m fucking thirsty,” announces Rin. Dismounting in a single fluid sweep, he literally reaches over and _shoves_ the nearest antelope aside. “Move, fatass.” It bleats helplessly and staggers over a few steps as he does the same thing with the next one in—“Hey, shove the fuck over.”

It’s utterly unfair that when Haru tries the exact same thing, the animal shoves back, hard, and for the bargain nearly gets him in the eye with a sharp spiral of horn. By the time he and Makoto have wrestled their way to the water’s edge, leaving a wake of discontent antelope complaining loudly behind them, Rin’s already halfway through washing up, his shirt discarded on a rock near the shoreline. 

He has tattoos scrawling up and down his spine like deep indigo snakes, which is and isn’t surprising. Haru had thought royals wouldn’t go in for that type of thing, but then again, it’s a deep-rooted tradition for a lot of tribes, and tribe is truth in Samezuka. Haru’s own family had thought the pain-bearing ritual pointlessly cruel, but most of Iwatobi are marked one way or another. Even Makoto has a spoor of thick arrow marks circling his wrist.

Squinting against the light, he catches a glimpse of words written in elaborate capitol script, barely legible to him even with his decade of schooling. There’s _meignisi_ , meaning the fire-hearted, over his left collarbone; _valharan,_ blood-spiller; and inked in the dip of his lower back, _torrasar,_ “master of lions,” the traditional title of the king.

“Ogling a royal personage is a crime punishable by death,” says Rin flippantly. He shakes his hair out of the little tail it’s been bound in and dumps water over his head.

“Everything nowadays is a crime punishable by death,” replies Makoto.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t give _me_ shit about it, puppy-eyes. I’m just a prince.”

“That means you’ll be king someday.”

“…thank you for that enlightening revelation. I had no fucking idea. Anyway, if my old man has anything to say about it—which I think he fucking does, he’s king, isn’t he—I’ll never ascend.”

“Why?” asks Haru, pulling his boots off.

“So you do talk.” Wading shorewards, Rin plops onto a rock, scattering a bunch of cormorants. “I was beginning to think my sister’d adopted a deaf-mute.”

“I can see why he wouldn’t want you to,” says Makoto. “You haven’t got a speck of politics.”

“Ah, putting up with lip from commoners. How I’ve fallen.” Rin shakes his head like a dog and water arcs everywhere. “I can’t ascend because my father’s a bullying, power-mongering tyrant with a mind about as broad as a shriveled worm and slower-moving than river sludge. I’m a stronger fighter, better rider, smarter strategist and overall way less shitty human being than he was at my age, so naturally he’s fucking terrified of me. Terrified he’ll see the kingdom’ll change before he goes belly-up.”

“ _Would_ you change it, if you were king?”

“I don’t want to be king,” Rin replies shortly. “Never asked for the crown, never wanted it.”

Haru peels his shirt off and tosses it at the shore, half-wishing it’ll hit Rin—it doesn’t. “Why?”

Rin laughs, sprawled out on the rock. Haru doesn’t think he imagines the up-down flick of his eyes as Haru flips water over himself. “This one, he asks the deep questions. Tell us your name, o wise one.”

“Nanase.”

“Well, _Nanase_ , I guess it’s because nothing’s fucking honest when you’re a king. When you fight, everyone lets you win. You want a fuck, no one can say no. You can’t earn jack shit. That kind of life’s worth nothing. Even if you started out with the right intentions, living day and night balls-deep in that kind of ass-kissery poisons you, kills your brain, till you’re playing with all your power like a kid making mud-pies.” A cormorant lands next to Rin’s leg, and he shoos it away lazily. “Only an idiot would choose that.”

“I think a lot of people would disagree,” says Makoto.

“Well, a lot of people are idiots.”

“If I were king—”

“No one’s asking, puppy-eyes—”

“I think there’s a lot of good I’d do. Lower the taxes, reform the discipline codes.”

“Oh, a bleeding heart. My sister does know how to choose them.”

There’s silence for a minute or two. Then Makoto asks quietly, “Is there a reason you’re so angry all the time?”

Rin makes an impressive sideways lunge for Makoto that resembles a move a crocodile would make. Haru’s feeling nice, so he only lets Makoto get in one punch before he splashes over and pulls Rin off. “Nice one,” he says to Makoto, hauling Rin bodily away—his nose is spilling an impressive amount of blood.

“You,” splutters Rin, spewing water, and okay, maybe Haru is forcing his head a little too close to the waterline—but he’ll survive. “Both of you must have a f-lll-fucking death wish.”

“You can be a king and have us executed, or live a freeman and not,” says Makoto cheerfully. “Pick one.”

“Otherwise that’s just hypocrisy,” adds Haru. He holds him nearly underwater for a few more moments, and then lets go and ducks the fist that predictably comes hurtling towards his head.

 

Soon, night laced with stars folds like navy damask over the earth. There’s still no sight of Gou and the others. Haru glances at Makoto and says, “I’ll take first watch.”

 

“Don’t I get a say in this?” complains Rin. He’s lying some distance away, facing away from the fire. He still sounds slightly nasal, although the blood stopped flowing a while ago.

 

“Nope,” says Makoto simply. “You’d probably stab us in our sleep.”

 

“Wow. Thanks for the confidence.”

 

“You’re welcome; you’ve done nothing to earn it. _And_ you get to sleep the whole night. Princes really do have it easy.” To Haru: “Wake me in a few hours, if they’re not here yet?”

 

He nods. In a matter of minutes, Makoto’s out like a light.

 

For a while, Haru enjoys the quiet, broken only by the ever-present rasp of wind, the soft snuffles of the antelope as they bed down for the night, and the fanlike flicker of the flames. Ah, silence.

 

Then Rin starts talking again.

 

“Ugh, God, it’s bleeding again.”

 

Maybe if he just ignores him…

 

“For all that he makes himself out to be some kind of nice person,” Rin grumbles, “he punches like hell.”

 

 _Fuck it._ He’ll leave the diplomatic silences to Makoto. “He never said he’s a nice person,” Haru retorts coolly. “Although he is. Besides, you’re just one of those people.”

 

“One of what people?”

 

“You bring out the worst in everyone.”

 

“…see, my sister I’d pardon, but the rest of you lot, I couldn’t care less about.”

 

“You can’t do that.”

 

“Fucking excuse me?”

 

Haru has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. It’s impossible to take this guy’s belligerence seriously when he’s got a plug of cloth stuffed up each nostril, like misplaced horns. “Claiming royal immunity and then complaining about how you’d rather be a freeman. Which one do you really want?”

 

“I don’t know, _Nanase._ Why don’t you tell me?”

 

Haru shrugs. “You can be a king without being your father.”

 

“Who said my father had anything to do with it?”

 

“Just a guess.”

_Guess, my ass._ Haru can see he’s struck something; he senses that the pulse in Rin’s corded throat is ticking in anger. He half rolls onto his elbow, hand sneaking towards the hilt of his knife. He doesn’t really think Rin will try anything, not with Makoto right there, but—

 

Suddenly, Rin’s eyes shoot to the side; if he were a dog, Haru thinks, his ears would be pricking up. “Sh,” he hisses. “Someone’s—”

 

“Yeah,” mutters Haru, kicking sand over their fire. He taps Makoto on the shoulder, clamping his hand over his mouth when he awakes and gesturing over his shoulder.

 

The person calls out. “Hello?” His voice is slightly nasal, with a heavy pinch of northerner accent. _Not a soldier,_ thinks Haru—a trained fighter would never give away his position like that. A merchant, perhaps, or just a traveler?

 

But the way he’s acting… Haru watches him whirl around, eyes wide with fear behind spectacles, as an antelope snorts and trots past him. There’s no way this guy is up to anything innocent.

 

Cautiously, the man approaches the water’s edge. Kneeling, he touches it lightly with his index finger. A ripple of blue phosphorence sparks across the surface, spreading rapidly into a thin ring of perhaps two or three meters in diameter. He says something Haru can’t hear, and the ring sinks down into the water as if it’s solid.

 

He just has time to see Rin mutter _what the hell_ before the man stands up and the ring floats out of the water, droplets somehow suspended in the air and still spinning lazily with blue glow. It rises a foot or two above the man’s head, and explodes outwards. Haru’s eyes flinch shut as it lances past them, but all he feels is a cool, sharp wind with the slightest moisture on it, like the sky’s breath right before a storm. He opens his eyes as the ring reaches the blank darkness beyond the oasis and vanishes in a puff of water.

 

The man turns suddenly and looks past the antelope, straight at them.

 

“You there,” he says. A shiver like a claw runs up Haru’s spine. He can’t have seen them. He didn’t even know they were there, a second ago.

 

The man draws his shortsword unsteadily. “Come ou—”

 

Rin moves first and fast, exploding from behind the antelope like a wolf. The man loses all his cold dignity as he flinches backwards with a startled yelp, and then the redhead is on top of him and pressing him into the sand.

 

“Y-your Hi-ggggghhhhh,” the man chokes as Haru runs forward and pulls the weapon easily out of the man’s hand. Soft palms, ink-stained fingers—a man of letters, then. Rin’s deduced as much, seemingly, as he snarls at the man, “What the fuck were you doing, mage?”

 

“H-hghhh—”

 

“Matsuoka,” calls Makoto. “Hey, Rin. Let up, he can’t breathe.”

 

After a second more of glaring, Rin relaxes his hold on the man’s throat. He sucks in air and wheezes, coughing violently.

 

“Who sent you here?”

 

“Your Highness—”

 

“Was it the guard? Who’s with you?”

 

“Yes—” The man glances at Makoto and Haru, doubtless confused. “I mean, they’re back there. We, they’re all looking for you. My Prince.”

 

“How many? How many are with you?”

 

“Not many, three or four. They didn’t believe me, didn’t think you could come this far. Are you all right, your—”

 

“Send them an all-clear.” When the man doesn’t respond, Rin shakes him, hard. “You must have a signal of some sort.”

 

“Y-y—Th-, the flares—they’re in my pocket.”

 

“Which one? And have a mind before you speak, mage. Lying to a prince means death.”

 

“Red, red, I swear!”

 

Makoto grabs a red-stamped flare from the man’s dropped satchel. Hurrying to their fire, he feels about in the sand, and sets an ember to the fuse. A few seconds later, a bright cluster of sparks shoots into the air, sending a shower of scarlet cinders scattering over the oasis as the antelope whinny in alarm.

 

When no legions of soldiers descend, Rin finally lets go of the man, who flops backwards into the sand, looking faintly traumatized. Haru can sympathize—he doesn’t think he’d like Rin’s admittedly impressive set of teeth that close to his face either.

 

“Now,” Rin says, “who the hell are you?”


End file.
